


an attempt at mourning

by railsbeforepails



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-30
Updated: 2011-07-30
Packaged: 2017-10-21 23:35:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,268
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/231127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/railsbeforepails/pseuds/railsbeforepails
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bro says you can hardly blame him for getting stabbed through the chest by a homicidal omnipotent god dog while he was down.</p><p>You suppose he has a point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	an attempt at mourning

**Author's Note:**

> I realize that Bro's body was in LOWAS rather than LOHAC, but by the time I figured this out I had already finished it and didn't want to go back and change it.
> 
> Warnings for character death, and blood, and language.
> 
>  ~~also, it would be gr8 if anyone wants to help me with coding.~~
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s hot in the Land of Heat and Clockwork (no shit) and while normally you are okay with this (not only because it’s cool to just go with the flow in situations such as these; you unironically love and thrive in heated environments) today it’s just the fucking icing on the metaphorical cake of shit you so do not want to deal with right now. Actually, you don’t really want to deal with most of this shit ever, especially not in this stifling heat. Especially not when the steaming pile of shit you need to deal with happens to be the cooling body of your dead guardian in a slowly expanding puddle of his own blood.

Yeah, shit sucks.

You wipe the gathering sweat from your brow with a swift, practiced motion, careful not to displace the perfect arrangement of your sunglasses, and take a few small steps forward. A few is all you can manage before you have to pause again, eyeing the scene in front of you in what would look like an impassive manner to anyone watching. You can’t bring yourself to move any closer.

It’s not because you’re scared (fuck that, Strider’s don’t get scared) or nervous (more likely but still a pretty fucking rare occurrence) or even the slightest bit apprehensive to be close to your dead guardian. You just….don’t want to get blood on your shoes. It’s a selfish thought, and you know it is, but you never claimed to be the patron saint of altruism.

Your inner Bro tells you to “shut the fuck up and stop being a pussy”. That guy could always see through your bullshit, and even in death it seems you won’t be able to escape his scrutinizing. You scowl at the real Bro. He just lies there.

You tell the Bro in your head that you are not a pussy, you’re just not super thrilled that you are left alone to clean up his shit yet again. Bro says you can hardly blame him for getting stabbed through the chest by a homicidal omnipotent god dog while he was down.

You suppose he has a point.

The sword protruding from Bro’s torso looks awfully familiar and a couple more steps forward allows you to investigate without getting too close. Sure enough, it’s Bro’s own blade, and one of his favorites at that. You chuckle, albeit bitterly, and take a moment to point out the irony in that to your inner Bro, although you’re sure he already knows. He is the motherfucking king of all irony after all. Right up until the very end.

“You gotta one-up me even in death, huh Bro?” Your voice sounds hoarse to your ears and this discovery makes your poker face waver, makes the corners of your lips twitch unhappily.

You take another couple of steps forward and there are only a couple of feet between you and your bro now. Your shoes are coming dangerously close to the blood gathering around Bro’s form. You can taste it; it’s heavy and thick in the air and pools around your tongue and the back of your throat.

All at once you feel like you’re going to throw up. You try to quickly back away from Bro, but somehow your feet get tangled underneath you and instead you stumble to the side. You curse as your shoes splash through the blood you were so carefully avoiding and the urge to empty the contents of your stomach hits you again. You feel yourself dry heave once before you manage to make your escape, tripping backward until there’s a sufficiently safe distance between you and Bro.

You’re breathing hard, your hands on your knees and your chin against your chest. God, you look so fucking _uncool._

The Bro in your head is cackling. “You’re such a fucking pansy! Come on Dave, I knew you were a puny little coward but I raised you better than this.”

“Shut the fuck up,” you grind out from between your clenched teeth. You raise your head up from your chest, glaring defiantly at Bro.

You take one last deep breath and straighten up, poker face sliding effortlessly back into place. Four long strides bring you back to Bro’s side, and this time, you don’t even flinch as your shoes splatter blood over the ankles of your jeans. You stifle the wave of nausea that hits you and kneel down at his side.

Bro’s face is still set in his typical, deadpan expression and you feel a rush of admiration and something akin to jealousy (it isn’t, jealous is another thing a Strider never, ever gets) coil in your chest. You would never admit it to anyone, but you don’t think you’d be able to do it. You don’t think you’d have it in you to hold that cool demeanor even in the face of death. But Bro could; he was always so much better at keeping that mask in place.

You can imagine him taking his dying breath: lips pressed tightly together, breathing hard through his nose, stoic till the very end. Your gut clenches something awful and you curse under your breath, irritated that you let that image get to you. You shake your head, opening eyes you hadn’t realized you had shut, and focus back on the Bro in front of you.

His shades are still perched flawlessly on the bridge of his nose. Your fingers twitch at your sides with the sudden urge to remove them. It’s only now that you’re realizing you’ve never seen him without them. Even when you were younger, and awaking from a nightmare, you left your room and crawled into bed with him, he somehow always managed to slide them on with lightning-quick reflexes before you could even catch a glimpse of the eyes beneath. You wonder if his irises are the same fucking ridiculous mutated shade that yours are.

For some reason, you kind of don’t want to find out, (you tell yourself it’s not because you don’t know if you could handle seeing his dead gaze, unseeing, settling nowhere) so you let your hand drop where it’s hovering beside his eyes.

You wonder if anyone besides Bro himself has seen his eyes, and at the same time realize Bro is the only one who’s seen yours. You also suddenly realize that Bro is the only one who has ever seen you cry.

Your chest suddenly feels hollow and weird and you really don’t want to be here anymore. You don’t feel sad exactly, (that would be too easy for one thing, and your inner Bro would never let you hear the end of it if you started moping around in sorrow over his dead counterpart) nor any of the other things you’re supposed to feel (where’s that five-step grieving system or whatever?). Just hollow.

You lean back on your heels and appraise Bro again, taking in the feathers laying everywhere, and the nearly grey color of his skin, and the red shock of blood staining his shirt around the silver blade in his chest. You should be surprised when you feel nothing, but for some reason you’re not. You decide you’re not leaving without that sword.

A message flashes across the screen of your glasses and you would groan in exasperation if cool kids did things like groan or get exasperated.

 **GC: STR1111111D3R**

You force yourself to answer Terezi and forget about Bro for a minute. It’s easy to do, and for some reason, that realization hurts more than you think any sword through the chest possibly could.


End file.
